Why Do I Write?

I have been spending a lot of time recently trying to strip away all the sequin attached to blogging. I have never been a fan of the term blogging or blogger, mainly for the simple reason blogger sounds way too damn similar to the word ‘booger’. I don’t want to be a booger.

But really, it is forever associated with the word ‘booger’.

I love writing. The instant gratification that goes along with hitting publish can produce a small high for me. Yeah, that’s right; I am a junkie for words.

It’s why lately I have been on a vision quest of sorts. Seeking out my origin story and my inspiration.

Why do I write? It is the latest in a life of existential crises. I mean, what is the point of it all?

I certainly don’t do it because I am some sort of activist. Most social justice issues I approach with tongue in cheek because even I can’t entertain the idea of truly caring deeply about things not happening to me. Bathroom issues? I somewhat sympathize, but I will never feel empathetic. To be honest, I feel enough things too deeply to get into feeling other people’s issues to my core.

I already have a hard time falling asleep with my own problems.

I do have things I need to say though. It started as a parent blah blogger. Before I knew it, I had listicles, word pictures and bears- Oh my! Over time, I feel as if I have refined myself. Taken the rawness and molded it. Worked it into something more than this passionate, emotion-laced rant.

I learned to be concise. Put a suit on and cleaned up per se.

Sometimes, I miss the way I used to write. Back when the rules didn’t matter because I didn’t know them. Sure, I couldn’t differentiate my ‘there their they’re’s with such precision but whatever.

I write because someone told me to do it, and in that moment of someone believing in me I believed in myself. I also had more to say than ever had I imagined.

I write for the rush. There is a certain synapse fire off that goes along with airing your dirty laundry. A false sense of bravado, leaving me feeling, for the moment, as if I can do or say whatever I want.

I can talk about the things most attach trigger warnings to, what else can I do? I put voices on demons and then hand them microphones and loud speakers.

Why do I write? Because, someone needs to provide Melania Trump with something to plagiarize. I write because I can’t plagiarize how I feel inside.

It is a conduit for me to express myself in a way I never thought possible. It is my interpretive dance. I am wild flowing motions moving messily along, but most importantly moving freely. I am following the beat of the fingers on the keyword, pirouetting through prose as if they were poems. It is slow before speeding up. I move from the bridge to the chorus, trying to dance across the paragraph.

There is a beat, you can find it hidden in the verse.

I write because it is more fun to be a troll with a blog than just an everyday asinine commenter.

A troll with a blog might be my new name.

I have so many reasons to write, every one of them important to me.

I write because I needed to give my voice safe passage into the world. I write because it can be as one-sided or conversational as I deem it. I write because it is a better way to pass the free time than drink and snort cocaine. I recently got a small plaque from work for being employed there for five years, and lamented over how when I first began working there if they given me the recognition thing it would have been the perfect surface for crushed up joy to be snorted from.

I write because I have a tumultuous amount of things to say.

I write because my sister killed herself.

I write because she wasn’t the first person I knew to end their life. Not even the first in my family.

I write because her father killed himself.

I write because my mother’s brother killed himself.

I write because I don’t want to kill myself. It isn’t a claim to know the reasons they or any others have had for ending their lives. It is an admission of not wanting to exist sometimes.

I write because if I didn’t, that admission of not wanting to exist would stay buried inside to possibly sprout and grow into suicidal thoughts.

I write because the highs and the lows are easier to navigate if I have a loose catalogue of them. I can read every post I have ever written and tell you if I was happy or depressed when I wrote it. I can tell you if I wondered about whether the world would be better off without me. I can read and be brought back to that moment, and remember why I needed to sit and say something that day.

I write because I haven’t stopped having things I need to say.

I write because…

I write.

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